Night Off
by editor frog
Summary: What constitutes the perfect night off? Now a two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**This is an experiment in dialogue. Points if you can guess who's in the conversations!**

**Disclaimer: Oh, but if I owned them...

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**

"A thick blanket."

"You're serious?"

"Yeah. Curl up in my favorite chair, maybe play a little something on the stereo, maybe a good book. Oh, and of course coffee."

"Nah. Hot tub, set at 104 degrees. Steam's pouring out the sides. Turn off the phones, maybe some good music, and close my eyes."

"In temperatures like that you could only last for a bout fifteen minutes before either falling asleep or overheating, both of which could cause death if you're not careful."

"Hey, I've been in your apartment. Once. I think snowmen on the street corner would find it cozy."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who's being froze out?"

"Oh, Emily's just commenting on the current temperature in my apartment."

"I swear, it's like 12 degrees Kelvin in there. How do you survive?"

"Why do you think I wear sweaters?"

"You're serious, kid? Man, I thought those were because you _liked_ them…"

"Of course, it could also be I'm just sensitive to temperature."

"Actually, Morgan, we were discussing the perfect evening in. Reid said curl up and read; I said quality time in a hot tub."

"Ooh. Hot tub…"

"Stop. Now. Before someone gets hurt."

"And if you weren't smiling, Emily Prentiss, I'd be really, really afraid right now."

"Damn skippy. So, since you're here, let's hear it."

"What?"

"Come on, Morgan. You've got the night off. No phones, no calls to come in, the files are off your desk and the crazy psychos of the world have taken a little hiatus from 'work.' So, what are you up to tonight?"

"Hmm."

"Come on, Morgan—you have _nothing_ planned?"

"Hey, we have a night off? News to me..."

"Yeah, and it's snowing out there, so either hurry this up or someone's taking me home. The train stopped running an hour ago."

"Okay, kid, I'll drop you. But we're picking up Chinese first."

"That's fine, whatev—we're _what?_"

"Yeah. Chinese. I've seen your place too, Reid—and you need to eat."

"You know what I think about chopsticks."

"That's why Americans invented forks."

"Actually, did you know that the fork was invented by…"

"Hot tub awaits…"

"Night, Emily."

"Night, guys. Good luck…"

"Thanks. Seriously, Morgan, _Chinese?_"

"It was either that or let Garcia feed you…"

"Better her."

"Hey, baby girl!"

"You bellowed?"

"You cooking tonight?"

"Maybe. Should I set places for two?"

"Three."

"Okay, and when did I decide to have a dinner party?"

"Morgan seems to think I can't eat on my own."

"Oh, cute and handsome thing you are; we all know that cooking just isn't your thing."

"I cook."

"Um, doctor, tossing the cardboard box with potato flakes and rubber chicken into the microwave is not 'cooking.' Nor is running the coffeemaker, which is what you were gonna say next."

"Okay, so I don't cook. Well, anyway."

"Give me a few minutes. I might just have an idea…"

"Pizza?"

"Only if it's homemade, Reid. Only if it's homemade."

"I can make pizza. How hard can it be?"

"Well, kid, I think we're about to find out."


	2. Chapter 2

**Due to popular demand, here's how the cooking turned out. Hope you enjoy!**

**See disclaimer in previous chapter.

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**

"Okay," Garcia said, allowing the guys into her small kitchen and tossing her bag next to the side table near the door. "So, pizza. Did you bring the stuff up from the…"

The sight of Reid laden down with plastic grocery bags full of pizza-making ingredients instantly killed that question. "You couldn't have helped?" Garcia said, narrowing her eyes at Morgan, who held open the door for the younger agent.

"Baby girl, in ten minutes we're gonna be racing for the fire extinguisher or calling an ambulance for his third-degree burns. Figured the least he could do was carry up the stuff."

Garcia made a mental note to herself to make Morgan clean up after this. She imagined the dishes in her sink stacked to the ceiling, as well as bits of dough spattered on the walls and traces of sauce stuck in the cracks of the floor tile. "Fine," she said. "Here, you can set it…"

It was then that the heaviest of the bags broke, sending the roll of pre-made pizza dough crashing onto the carpet, where the cardboard tube exploded and sent the gooey substance flying into the kitchen. It finally came to rest on the oven door, looking as though the dough were clinging to the small oven window for dear life.

"Oops," Reid said, in a very small voice. Suddenly the rest of the groceries fell in a heap on the floor as Reid started over to peel the dough off of the oven door.

"Paint chips in the crust," Morgan muttered to himself. He was trying like crazy to not start laughing.

"_You_ can start mixing up the sauce, oh wise chef," Garcia said.

"Me?"

"It's either that or help us with this dough. We only bought one…"

"Tomato sauce, oregano, basil…" Morgan listed off on his fingers as he began mixing the ingredients into a bowl. Finally, the dough had been pried off the door, and it was to Morgan's great relief that no paint had peeled off in the process.

"Now, grasshopper," Garcia said, looking at the slightly awkward protégé she had before her, "we're going to fry up the meat."

"You have to _cook_ the pepperoni?"

"No, but you _do_ have to cook the sausage," she laughed. "And the hamburger."

"I knew letting Morgan pick was a bad idea…"

"Well, you got green peppers and mushrooms and olives—_both kinds_."

"You are _not_ putting mushrooms on _my_ pizza," Morgan called out.

"Boys," Garcia said, raising her voice just a little. "It's a circle. We can put the stuff we want on our part of the crust."

"It's geometry, Morgan," Reid added. "A pie can, in fact, be divided into three parts…"

"Hey, hey, chill," Morgan said, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm just saying, mushrooms on pizza…"

"It's a perfectly edible substance."

"Reid, do you know where they _come _from?"

"These mushrooms were probably grown on a farm, in compost."

"Really?"

"Yes. What, you really thought they served _wild mushrooms_ in the _produce section_?" Now it was Reid's turn to smile a little.

"No, smarty pants. It's just the image of, you know, what they usually grow on…"

"Morgan, relax. I won't put mushrooms on your part."

The sounds of meat sizzling and spoons clacking against porcelain filled the tiny kitchen for a few minutes. Then Reid picked up the bowl of sauce from Garcia and watched carefully as she showed him how to spread the paste evenly on the rolled-out crust. Then he sprinkled a generous amount of mozzarella on top of the sauce, and then came the best part—piling the toppings on the prepared crust. By the time they finished, the center of the pizza resembled a small hill.

"Think we've got enough stuff on it?" Reid asked.

"Yeah," Garcia assured him. "Now all we gotta do is toss it in the oven. Grab the pan."

"Um…_what _pan?" Reid asked timidly.

"The one I told Morgan to put the crust on top of."

"Garcia, you never asked me to put anything on top of anything else," Morgan said, very seriously.

"I didn't?"

Both agents shook their heads.

"Oh, boy."

"Oh boy is right."

"Well…do you have a cookie sheet?"

"Reid, you actually know what a cookie sheet is?"

"Why does everyone think I'm incapable of cooking for myself?"

Two pairs of eyes measured up the younger man's skinny frame.

"It's high metabolism, not anorexia or lack of cooking skills," Reid spat.

"We know that," Morgan said, his hands in mock-surrender again. "But you can see where most people wouldn't. Besides, we've met your mom."

"There's only a fifty percent chance that that's the reason…"

"Still, we see the resemblance."

Reid fell silent. It was true that in that respect he _did _take after his mother…

"Anyway, cookie sheet. Let's see…" Garcia trailed, rummaging around for the elusive object. "Ah! Here we go!"

"Okay, now let's stick the edge of the sheet underneath the crust—just enough to give it a start…"

Morgan and Garcia gingerly coaxed the overstuffed item onto the baking sheet, with Reid keeping an eye on the progress and lending a hand when it looked as though the whole thing might tear and split. After about ten minutes, the three managed to center the pizza onto the sheet.

"Wow," Morgan said, heaving a breath. "Reid, how'd you…?"

"Like you said, you've met my mom. How else do you think I ate?"

"Speed dial?"

"In the eighties?"

"Phone book."

"Actually, sometimes she was okay. Then she'd cook. I especially liked rice pudding…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. A _pudding_ made out of _rice_?" Morgan wrinkled his nose at the thought of that.

"Hey, I've eaten that pumpkin concoction your mom sent."

"_Do not_ be talking smack about my mom's pumpkin bread. That stuff is _to die for._"

"I'm just saying, we've all got something."

"My mom used to make these tortilla things," Garcia said. "She'd have Dad go down and get a pack of tortillas, and then she'd toss them in a deep fryer. After a second or two, she'd take them out and my brothers and I would pour cinnamon and sugar on them. Those were great."

"You know, I think there's an all night place down the street, right?" Morgan said.

"Yeah, there is…"

"I'll be back."

Garcia and Reid looked at each other a moment as Morgan left. "What's he up to?" Garcia asked.

"No idea," Reid replied.

Twenty minutes later, Morgan came back. He had a pack of tortillas and a can of cinnamon in one hand, and a bag of sugar in the other.

"I don't know what's in that pudding of yours, Reid," he said, "but I do know how to deep-fry a tortilla."

The look in Garcia's eyes said it all.

"After we eat, though," he said.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, rushing over to check on the pizza. It was about half-done, bubbling and browning in all the right places. Ten minutes later, it was done, and the three settled into their homemade pizza.

"This is incredible," Morgan said between bites.

"Hey, only the best at _casa de Garcia,_ the tech quipped. Next to her, Reid was silent, mostly due to the rate at which he was eating his pizza.

"I think you've got a hit," Morgan chuckled. "Now, about those tortillas…"


End file.
